David Wilson - Vintage soul

Donovan repeated the process with the other three braziers, chanting a different name each time. When all four were lit the smoke whirled, trapped between the two carved circles. The symbols, and the desk, were obscured from view, and as Donovan sat back and concentrated, the envelope floated into the air as if plucked by invisible hands. Donovan’s hands mimicked the motion. He then reached down and lifted an invisible dagger from the air. The dagger in the circle rose at the same time, and he wasted no time pressing the thin blade beneath the flap of the envelope and slicing it open.

The dagger floated back to the desktop, and the paper within the envelope slid out, then unfolded to float about an inch above the circling smoke. Donovan shifted slightly so that the violet light from the lamp caught the paper just right. The first thing he noted was at the top of a list of signatures at the bottom of the letter. It was signed, Preston Johndrow. Beneath Johndrow’s bold script were nine other signatures, including that of Joel Bloodstone himself.

Donovan knew Johndrow, though the two were not close. He’d performed a few tasks for the council in the past, and though he was never fully comfortable in their presence, he respected their power and authority. In any case, they were not wizards, and though they employed a small army in the name of security, it was not likely they would resort to a cursed letter if they intended Donovan harm.

He snuffed the braziers with a quick gesture of one hand. He slid them aside with the tip of the dagger too cool and placed the blade itself back in the drawer. Then he leaned over the desk to read. It was not a long letter; the facts were laid out quickly and with a slightly shakier hand than the signature beneath them. Donovan scanned the note quickly, and then read it over a second time more slowly. When he reached the part about Stine’s death he stopped and frowned.

Donovan knew the small wizard by reputation. Whoever, or whatever, had brought off this kidnapping was no slouch. Stine was not only old and powerful, but he was a stickler for detail. If his defenses were breached, there were only two ways it could have happened. Either someone, or something extremely well versed in stealth and combat had crashed that party, or it was an inside job. No ordinary wizard — and certainly none of the death-challenged guests at the party could have breached a gnomish defense shield, even if security had been light with only Stine himself present. There had been no reason to expect trouble for many years, and things had grown slack in some quarters, but not with Stine. Every job was as important as the last, and the next. The security firm’s motto was “Nothing lost, ever.” Donovan wondered if they’d be changing that now.

Cleo leaped down from the chair and padded across the floor. With a quick, graceful leap she landed on the desktop beside the lamp, narrowly avoiding sending the small braziers tumbling in all directions. Donovan looked up at her.

“What is it, Cleo? More company?”

Donovan glanced at the lamp, and it flared so suddenly and so brilliantly that he was blinded. He dropped the letter and drove back from the desk, cursing. As the flash of light faded from the room, Donovan recovered and scanned it quickly. Nothing seemed out of place, but he had only a fraction of a second to take it in. The room went dark. The lamp hummed. There was still a faint glimmer of radiance from the bulb, and for an instant it tried to rekindle and blaze, but its effort failed.

The fire, which had snapped and popped merrily only moments before was silent. Warmth fled with the light, and Donovan felt as if he’d been doused in ice water.

As the room went dark, Donovan crab-walked to the side as quickly and silently as he could manage. He drew up with his back tight to one of the book cases. He remained there, immobile and silent, waiting. Sweat rolled down his collar and he repressed a shiver as cold sweat slicked his arms and chest. Salty drops rolled into the corners of his eyes, burning, but he kept them open, and he remained still.

Cleo meowed mournfully across the room, but he made no move to find, or comfort her. Donovan held his breath and concentrated. With no light, his eyes were useless, so he closed them and concentrated his other senses. His heart pounded loudly, and he worked on calming it. He needed silence. Cleo meowed again, and he let out a slow breath. Whoever it was hadn’t found or harmed the cat.

At first he heard nothing; then it came. A whistling, whining sound echoed down the chimney, low at first, but rising in pitch and volume until, within moments, it was so loud he had to cover his ears against the pain. With hearing cut off, he instinctively opened his eyes.

The fireplace flashed with flaming light, and Donovan dove around his desk, rolled once and spun. As he rolled, he drew one of the talismans that hung about his neck free and held it in front of his face. Still blind from the flash, he couldn’t see it, but he knew he had the right one by touch. Cleo brushed his back and curled around him, hissing at the fireplace, and Donovan blinked, trying desperately to regain his sight.

Then the whining died to a hiss, and, as his vision cleared, Donovan saw it. A white, flaming face hovered just above the logs in the fireplace. The face was featureless with the exception of two black pits that served as eyes. The flames burning around them made them look like lumps of fiery coal. As Cleo flattened herself against Donovan’s back and dug her claws into the carpet, the face began to speak.

The burning coal eyes of the hovering face glared out of the fireplace, but there was no sign of further intrusion. Calming himself, Donovan mentally ran over his defenses. The fireplace should have been safe against such an invasion as this. Donovan had placed the wards himself, and he checked them regularly. He had plenty of enemies, and they possessed a variety of powers. There were further magical barriers still in place between the fire and the rest of the room, but this was no time to check their efficiency, if he could avoid it.

The talisman he’d drawn from the front of his shirt and gripped tightly in his hand was a powerful one. Instead of attempting to foil one or another type of magic, it was designed to reflect whatever was cast upon it, magnified. It had saved his skin more than once in such an encounter, and was always the first thing he reached for.

Donovan had purchased the charm from a young man and his wife, who was considerably older; by centuries. The talisman had been purchased from a gnomish wizard named Tobias Langston in a small shop down town. The woman had been trapped in a crystal until she agreed to wed Langston, which she never would have done. Only the accidental sale of this talisman to the young man had helped to free her. Ironically, Langston sold the talisman because he was unable to determine its abilities. Every time he cast a discovery spell on it, his mind was filled with nothing more than the desire to know what the talisman was.

Cleo curled around Donovan’s ankle as he stood slowly to face the flaming apparition in his fireplace.

“You could have knocked,” he said, forcing his voice to sound casual.

There was no immediate answer. The fire had resumed its crackling and popping. The lamp on Donovan’s desk hummed very quietly and had resumed a very dim violet glow. Donovan clutched his talisman more tightly. Either his visitor had relaxed, for the moment, or the effort to overcome the entire home’s defenses had proved too much, and the lamp was a sign of that weakness.

A voice crackled out of the flames, distorted and amplified. There was something hauntingly familiar about it, but Donovan could not quite place it.